


Protest Too Much

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: hlh_shortcuts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:39:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos lies to himself. Nobody else believes him, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protest Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Adabsolutely for the [Highlander Holiday Shortcuts exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/hlh_shortcuts)

"Sorry, MacLeod, but you're not my type," Methos said, flicking the bottle rolling on the table to point to someone else.

"I'm hurt," Duncan said, not sounding hurt at all. But his eyes were suddenly intent. Well, too bad, Methos thought. I'm not going to get caught up in the man's charm again and suddenly find myself wham! up a light-post.

"Hey!" Richie, next to him, was indignant. "Point that thing at someone else, okay? Sorry Mac, but no."

"I'm starting to feel unwanted," Duncan said. He reached for the bottle, which he'd idly spun on the table, forgetting about the silly game.

"Oh give me that." In one swift sinuous movement, Amanda picked up the bottle and leaned over to plant a kiss on Duncan's lips. She dropped the bottle. Methos caught it before it rolled off the table.

"That's better," Duncan said smugly. Amanda pretended to bite at his nose, and he laughed. Then she smirked over her shoulder at Methos, who was watching them with his eyes narrowed. "This one's for Methos, the silly old coward," she stage-whispered to Duncan, and gave him a long, slow kiss.

Then she turned back to Methos, who was clutching the bottle as if it were some strange and rare object, and before he could protest, she buzzed him full on the mouth. She took the bottle from Methos and glanced at Richie, who stood up abruptly.

"Oh no. It's getting way too weird in here for me. Is this what happens when you live too long?" He shook his head. "Later."

Duncan and Methos were looking at each other across the table as if masks had fallen from their faces.

Amanda smiled and made a short a mock bow as if she had conjured a particularly neat trick.

"You might be sorry for that later," Joe observed dryly as she slid into a stool across the bar from him. "Hell, we all might be."

"Oh, Joe," Amanda pooh-poohed. "They need a kick in the butt. It'll be amusing."

"Amusing isn't the word I'd use," Joe said.

 

#####

 

Duncan MacLeod was _not_ his type. Methos had known this before he even met Duncan. He'd known it from the endless hours he'd spent studying the man's Chronicles. A man who was born a Chieftain's son and who still protected his extended clan. A hero. A Boy Scout. An immortal Galahad with a code of honor. Of course, his intense interest in Duncan's Chronicles was pure self-defense. Duncan was possibly the most important immortal to come down the pike in recent centuries, and Methos kept tabs on important immortals. But for all his study of the Highlander's Chronicles, their first meeting had caught him off-guard.

Oh, he'd arranged it so Duncan would come to him. He'd arranged it to look like it wasn't arranged at all. Casual. He hadn't expected Duncan to suss him out so quickly -- certainly not at first sight. Neither had he been ready for the charge he'd felt pass between them as Duncan stood there with the beer in his hand, looking pole-axed. It was electrical. Not like a quickening, no; not even like Duncan's presence, but something fine and strong and completely unexpected. Methos had been glad he was sitting down.

So he'd been caught, like a hermit in his cave, and Duncan MacLeod his acolyte. It would have been amusing, if it hadn't been so disconcerting.

Duncan's cheerful curiosity had also surprised him -- the inevitable awe at Methos the Legend was there, yes, but beyond that was Duncan's obvious pleasure in making a new friend. Duncan fell instantly into an easy camaraderie with Methos, just as if he wasn't walking alongside a strange immortal he'd just met and who just might conceivably have an agenda that involved swords in some deserted back lot. His brightness had dazzled Methos into blurting out that he'd written about Duncan in his journal. Blast the Chronicles and their damned omissions. Duncan's Chronicles hadn't begun to convey the devastating way he opened his heart, nor how difficult it was not to respond in kind.

Not his type. At all. For from the first, he'd had to disabuse the puppy of his sagacity as an elder and tried to get him to be less trusting, not just of new friends, but of some of his oldest. It had been harder than he'd thought it'd be to see that first uncomplicated admiration die in Duncan's eyes. It had been replaced by something deeper, and truer, but he would never forget the look in Duncan's eyes the first time he said Methos's name.

 

#####

 

"I appreciate your concern about my love life, Amanda, but Duncan MacLeod is not my type." The two of them were strolling along the streets of Seacouver in the late afternoon sunshine, with nothing better to do, apparently, than talk about Duncan.

"He's everybody's type," Amanda said, waving a dismissive hand. "Handsome, smart, has exquisite taste, helps out his friends when they need it, likes to cook..."

"Thrifty, brave, clean, reverent..."

"...Good in bed." She finished. "Absolutely fantastic in bed," she amended. She stopped in front of a window display of hats. "What do you think? The red beret or the blue?"

"The blue one. Red is overdone. You're a woman, Amanda," Methos said. "I'm a man."

"Very observant of you, darling," Amanda said. "And correct on both counts. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"I'm just saying," Methos said patiently, after they were again strolling down the street, Amanda with a package in hand, "That your experience in bed with him may be different from a man's."

Amanda stopped in her tracks. "Are you saying he isn't good in bed?" Methos almost laughed at the outraged look of disbelief on her face. _Oh, Duncan._

"I'm saying I wouldn't know," Methos said.

"Liar," Amanda said cheerfully.

"No, really, we haven't --" he sighed at her raised eyebrow. "How did you know? Spies? Bribe a Watcher?"

"Women's intuition," Amanda said. At _his_ raised eyebrow, she relented. "Duncan told me."

"He told you! Oh that just--" he flung up his arms in frustration. "And after he swore _me_ to secrecy."

"Well, I asked," Amanda hurried to Duncan's defense. "And he's a terrible liar."

"Yes, he is," Methos muttered. His eyes narrowed. "So what made you ask him?"

"Oh really darling, the way you two make cow eyes at each other, it's hardly a secret. You can blow out a girl's gaydar at fifty feet."

"I don't make cow eyes -- not at Duncan, not at anyone."

Amanda only smiled. Maddening chit. "So we're agreed that Duncan is good in bed?"

"He's great in bed. He's stupendous in bed. He should win the Nobel Prize for being good in bed. He's not my type." Methos said through gritted teeth.

"The Gentleman doth protest too much, methinks," Amanda said.

"I'm not protesting. I'm just stating a simple fact."

"Mm," Amanda said. Then, as if struck by something, she said, "Am I your type?"

"Oh, God yes," Methos said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm getting a headache."

"Then maybe sometime we can do a threesome," Amanda said happily.

Methos walked into a light-post.

 

#

 

Methos kicked the blankets off the bed and rolled over on his back, full of a dream of Duncan's lips. He tried to recapture the dream -- or at least the lips part -- but it was already wisping away. He frowned. There had been someone else in the dream. Someone who Duncan -- _Kristin,_. Oh, God. Methos moaned out loud and sat up in bed, running his hands over his face as if to rub the dream away. Great, just great. He'd never get back to sleep now. God, what a debacle that was. Duncan should have taken her head, not him. _Death before dishonor, my ass._ He sighed, and got out of bed. No more dreams for him tonight. He poured himself a glass of scotch and went to sit by the night window. He sipped it slowly, remembering.

He'd left Duncan on the beach after he'd taken Kristin's head. Methos didn't want to be with him while the quickening of one of Duncan's former lovers was still coursing through his body. And he really, really wanted to be alone.

Until he didn't. Suddenly the endless night sky was too much and he'd started to shiver uncontrollably, the jagged electric power of the quickening he'd taken making him ill. He'd staggered to his feet and headed back to Duncan's place at a desperate run, still quickening-drunk, every nerve in his body frayed, his hot skin crying out to be cooled under Duncan's touch. There it was. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it before -- he thought about it all the fucking time -- but now he _needed_ it.

He needed Duncan. And he'd just killed one of Duncan's old lovers. Not the best confluence of events.

Duncan was down in dojo the when Methos returned, pounding the stuffing out of a punching bag. He didn't stop when Methos took a last panting breath, put his hands in his front pockets so Duncan wouldn't see them shaking, and walked up as casually as he could manage.

"You can hit me if it will make you feel any better," he offered after a minute.

Duncan stopped punching the bag, but held on to it as if he wanted to strangle it. "Don't tempt me."

Methos wanted to tempt him. Duncan straightened, unselfconsciously flexing his muscles. He was shirtless, and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. It took everything Methos had to keep his hands in his pockets, when all he wanted to do was run his hands down Duncan's bare chest. He wasn't sure if Duncan was kidding or not about hitting him. But Methos was so hungry to feel Duncan's body on his, that if it meant being smacked around the Dojo, so be it. It was better than nothing. It was --

Bad, he thought. Very bad.

Duncan was looking at him with an odd look on his face. Methos realized he'd been staring. He looked at the floor. "Duncan--" he said, hating the pleading note in his voice. He stopped.

"Ah, Methos," Duncan said softly.

Methos felt a tremor run through his body. "Look, um. Just this once. Then I'll go, whatever. No strings."

Duncan was suddenly very close to him. He touched Methos's face softly. Methos shuddered, whether from pain or pleasure he couldn't have said. "There are always strings," Duncan said. "We're friends."

"Friends, right." Methos shuddered again, drawing his shoulders in against disappointment as sharp as a sword to the guts. He turned to go.

But Duncan's arm caught him across the chest. He stood still and tried to breathe.

"I can deal with strings," Duncan said softly. He gathered Methos in and kissed him. _Just like that_, Methos thought. Then all thought fled as he let himself fall into the warm circle of Duncan's arms.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs," Duncan said huskily against his neck.

"Upstairs, right," Methos said. He was still vibrating, but he wasn't sure it was from the quickening.

Duncan laughed and pushed him towards the lift.

Methos had sometimes -- well, often -- fantasized about Duncan mashing him up against the wall of the lift and kissing him until he couldn't breathe. He'd imagined Duncan swinging him into the loft in a bear hug, his lips on Methos's and his hands reaching for his ass. He'd had fantasies of pinioning Duncan to the couch, of pressing him against the wall, of the two of them wrestling each other across the floor like a pair of boys just learning the magic of each other's bodies, of rolling around on Duncan's bed, clothes yanked every which way or in the mysterious way of fantasies, simply disappearing. He'd dreamed of Duncan's body hot against his, hard in the places it should be and yielding to his touch. He'd coveted Duncan's mouth, that full-lipped sultry pouting mouth, kissing him here, and here, and here. He'd wanted -- for so long -- to feel Duncan's cock against his as they ground their hips together, skin against skin, slick and hot, until they shuddered and came, sticky and panting and grinning -- It was all that, and more, this first time, except it was harder to get his boots off than he'd expected.

"Why do you insist on getting these stupid lace-up things," Duncan growled. "It's got a knot in it that's just --" he jerked on the shoelace and swore.

 

Methos was flung back on Duncan's bed, his trousers jammed down around his ankles, which were caught on his boots, which Duncan couldn't get off. He was laughing too hard to help.

"Go ahead and laugh," Duncan said from the foot of the bed. "Maybe we should have stayed in the Dojo. I could have just thrown you over the horse."

"That's a pretty image," Methos said, still laughing. He twisted to reach the nightstand and rummaged among the small arsenal he'd deposited there. "Here, use this." He skillfully threw a small knife at Duncan.

Duncan caught it by the handle, scowling. "You want knife play?" He glowered at Methos, not too convincingly. "We could do that."

"The laces, Duncan. Don't get ideas."

"I've got some ideas," Duncan said darkly, as he hacked savagely at the bootlaces.

"Heaven forbid," Methos said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be able to wear these boots again."

"Hah," Duncan sliced at the laces one last time and smiled sunnily when they gave. Methos relaxed into the pillows, patiently waiting while Duncan threw one boot, then the other across the room, then with a flourish whipped off Methos's pants, throwing them to the floor like a challenge to a duel.

Methos very deliberately opened his knees in a lazy sprawl.

Duncan stopped huffing. He went so still Methos thought he'd stopped breathing. Methos felt exposed and happy, but a little bit awkward, with Duncan standing there staring down at his nakedness. _He_ still had his trousers.

Then Duncan said, "I've thought about you like that, in my bed. So many times." And it was all right.

Duncan's trousers didn't last long. They joined Methos's pants on the floor (Duncan had slipped easily out of his athletic shoes) and then Methos himself went still and breathless as Duncan stretched out along the whole length of Methos's body. "I've thought about this, too," Methos confessed, and then said nothing more for a very long time as Duncan kissed him, then kissed him again, and then they got lost in kissing -- until Methos thought he was going to come from just the feel of Duncan's lips and tongue on his. But then Duncan caught up their two cocks together and squeezed, and Methos heard himself whispering hoarsely, "Fuck me, Duncan."

Duncan let go of Methos long enough to fling open a drawer and paw through a different sort of arsenal (Methos looked through it later; he'd had no idea Duncan and Amanda were so... adventurous. Maybe he'd take her up on that threesome, after all) and produced a jokily flamboyant tube, grinning at Methos wickedly.

Methos had another laughing fit as he let Duncan slick him up, toss him over on his belly, plump him up like a pillow and arrange him for easy access. "We can always go back downstairs," he offered. "There's till the horse -- _Oh._" His laughter stopped as Duncan entered him, and turned into long, shuddering breaths, taken more to center himself than for air. But his center dissolved, along with all reason and sense, into sweet madness as Duncan thrust into him again. "Oh, God," he breathed -- the last coherent words he was able to manage for some minutes. Duncan wasn't rough, but neither was he gentle; controlled at first, sliding his cock into Methos easily. And easily they fell into rhythm together, both on the same wavelength for once. Methos savored this, knowing it wouldn't last; and when Duncan began to lose control, thrusting harder and deeper, clutching at him, reaching around to pump Methos's cock, Methos welcomed in turn the force and the power of Duncan's desire, answered it, felt in it something that was already strong and good between them, that would be tested again and again. And then Duncan shook and moaned, and begged Methos for -- what? Just _please, please, please_. Methos let himself yield, let himself surrender, let himself give himself to Duncan and hold nothing back. _Please_. Yes. And Methos felt Duncan's orgasm spreading through him and his own spilling outward in one wonderful, terrible rush.

....

"Well, that was better than being smacked around the dojo," Methos murmured against Duncan's chest.

"Hmm...? Duncan ran his fingers lightly through Methos's hair, down his neck, and paused between his shoulder blades. "What?"

"Thought you were going to punch me like a ..." Methos yawned until his jaw cracked. "Punching bag," he said sleepily. "The old one-two."

Duncan's chest shook; he was laughing.

"What?" Methos pulled back and looked into Duncan's face. "You wanted to, didn't you?"

"Always." Duncan smiled, brushing his fingers across Methos's nose. "But this was more fun."

 

_And it was._ Methos walked the city streets alone, his fists in his pockets, remembering the giddy paintbrush-to-the-nose camaraderie he'd shared with Duncan. _For a while._

 

#####

 

"Duncan MacLeod is not my type," Methos said to Joe. He pushed his empty glass across the bar.

"Haven't you had enough?" Joe said, refilling the glass.

"Double," Methos said.

Joe deftly filled the glass to the brim. Methos picked it up rather shakily and drank half of it in one go.

"If you were a mortal I'd be calling you a cab about now," Joe said.

"Relax, Joe," Methos said. "I can still walk. And if I can still walk, I can walk out the door, shake my head and be sober as a judge." Methos sighed. "A definite drawback to immortal healing. What I wouldn't do for a week-long bender."

"This is about Duncan?"

"Duncan who?" Methos said, taking another swig.

"You know, the guy who's not your type?" Joe said. "The guy who, up to about an hour ago, was trying to drink Old Badger over there under the table." Joe nodded towards a blue-eyed, apple-cheeked, twinkling man who took up the space of two people at the other end of the bar. His huge hands made the beer mug he was holding look like a teacup.

"Nobody can drink Old Badger under the table," Methos said.

"Well, Duncan sure didn't. He staggered out the door while he could still stand on his feet, though. And now here you are."

Methos shrugged.

Joe hesitated, then shook his head, "Man, I should not be getting in the middle of this. But I gotta know. What's going on between you two?"

"I'll tell you what's going on. He --" Methos stopped, his eyes going suddenly bleak. "You don't want to know."

"Damn it, Methos." Joe drummed his fingers on the bar. "Just tell me one thing, man. This -- situation, whatever it is. It's not going to come to swords, is it?"

Methos focused on Joe's serious face. He laughed shortly and Joe winced. "God, that would be an end to it, wouldn't it?"

Joe looked like he wished he'd bitten his tongue.

"But I've already had his sword to my neck," he said softly to no one in particular. Joe's eyes narrowed.

Methos held up his glass. Joe poured again. Methos sat looking into the glass as if scrying.

"You know what, Joe?" Methos suddenly banged the glass on the counter, dead drunk earnest. "This is worse. This." He tried to get the words out. The problem was, he wanted to tell Joe everything and yet keep it all secret.

"Alexa," he said, so softly that Joe had to bend close to hear. "Only worse." The shock on Joe's face was almost funny, and Methos almost laughed. Almost. "See you," He slid off his chair and carefully wobbled out the door. He didn't shake his head. Just kept walking.

 

#####

 

Duncan had gotten over Kristin. But things between them had cooled. Methos had met Alexa, and Duncan had (with relief, Methos suspected) stepped back into the role of friend. Until the dark quickening turned everything upside-down.

Methos had seen a lot of evil in his time. More than Duncan knew. A very old part of him had thrilled to Duncan's words -- _Do you know what evil is? Dark, soulless evil. Imagine it. Live it!_ Methos knew what evil was, he didn't have to imagine it. He _had_ lived it. He had also walked away from it. He had run from it to save his skin and he'd run from it to save his soul. But this time he couldn't run. He could not desert Duncan. It had filled Methos with horror to watch the best immortal he'd known in five thousand years twist and warp under the evil he'd taken in with the dark quickening. Methos had to save him. He had to be Galahad to save Galahad. _Fight it! Fight it like you have fought every other evil thing in your life because that is what you are up against. Remember who you are! Remember this._ Methos kicked at a stone, to let out the emotion the memory stirred in him. He'd handed Duncan the Clan MacLeod sword, for fuck's sake. He'd done his damnedest to help Duncan find his way back to himself. To the hero that he was. And Duncan had found his way.

Leaving Duncan, even to return to Alexa, was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But at least Duncan was whole, and sane, and once again Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Gradually, they eased back into their old routine. They rarely talked about what had happened, not even when an anguished Duncan had asked Methos to come to his bed. There, Methos had, not gently, helped Duncan quiet the demons he still carried in his soul.

 

#####

 

"Duncan MacLeod is not my type," Methos said to his own face in the mirror. His reflection sneered at him. "Yeah, and that's why you returned to Paris after Alexa died."

"I didn't want bury her in Greece," he told himself. "I didn't want her to be so far away."

"You can hop a plane from Paris to Santorini just as easily as taking a plane from Seacouver to Paris," he argued with himself reasonably, feeling a pang of guilt. "For that matter, you could have stayed in Greece."

"I don't know anyone in Greece this century," he said.

His reflection snorted.

"You didn't just move back to Paris," he reminded himself. "You moved in with Duncan. Into the barge. On a boat, in the water. Then you got caught up in Duncan's cockamamie scheme with the De Valincourts. You got in the middle of a married couple and almost lost your head. Why? Because Duncan batted his eyelashes. Not your type? Don't kid yourself."

"And then," he continued, warming up to the subject, "After the Watchers put Joe on trial, and the debacle with Galati -- an old friend of Duncan's _of course_, what did you do? I'll tell you what you did." He stabbed a finger at the mirror. "You followed Duncan to Seacouver."

"I did not. I went to Katmandu."

"For enlightenment? Or forgetfulness?"

Methos glared at himself. "Enlightenment is overrated. So is yak butter."

"Right. Tell yourself that."

"I am. I'm having a completely solitary discussion with myself. I've lost my mind. This is -- this is _exactly_ what happens when I get involved with the Highlander."

"Yet, you don't give it up, do you? You went to Seacouver to be with him -- not that he's your type or anything -- just like the last time you followed him."

"I didn't follow Duncan to Seacouver. I followed Kristin to Seacouver."

"To warn Duncan."

"Duncan needed to be warned."

"There's the telephone. Wonderful thing, technology."

"He needs help. He--"

"He appreciated your help with Keane, did he?"

"Touche." Methos leaned forward thoughtfully and placed one palm against the glass. "Of course, that was after Kronos," he said soflty. "Not really in the mood for help from me right then. Well," he said briskly, "nice talking to myself. I've lost my bloody mind. Why do I do this to myself?" Methos turned away from the mirror and sighed. "Not the first time I've asked myself that question. Nor the last."

 

#####

 

"Why are you going around telling everyone I'm not your type?" Duncan was up to his elbows in hot soapy water.

Methos sat on the other side of the counter and watched Duncan wring a dishcloth to within an inch of its life. "Well, you aren't, are you?" He kept his voice light to match Duncan's. "We're as different as -- night and day. Black and white. Tomato-tomahto sort of thing."

Duncan looked at him skeptically. Then he suddenly leaned over the counter, pinched Methos's cheeks together, and kissed him hard.

They didn't come up for air for several minutes.

"Not your type," Duncan scoffed.

Methos shifted a little on his chair, pretending not to see Duncan's smug grin. "You shouldn't do that. Who knows where it might lead."

"I know where it will lead," Duncan said, reaching out to tweak Methos's earlobe.

"Ow, hey," Methos said. "What's gotten into you?"

Duncan picked up the wet dishtowel and flicked him with it. It stung.

"Petty, petty," Methos said, brushing droplets down the front of his sweatshirt.

"You started it," Duncan said. "If you can't stand the heat--"

Methos snorted.

"You're not my type either, for that matter," Duncan said, picking up a dry towel and polishing a plate as if it were a blot on the universe.

Methos went still. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. You're not my type. Too much of a smart aleck, just to start."

Methos's eyes narrowed. "I am not a smart aleck. "I just say things plainly, that's all."

"Yeah, right," Duncan said, picking up another plate. "'If you die, Amanda is free to date,'" he mimicked. "Sounds pretty smart aleck to me."

"Yes, well, you didn't, and she isn't." Methos said, rearranging pieces of silverware in the drying rack. "I didn't realize that made such an impression on you." He met Duncan's glare calmly. "So I'm a smart aleck. What else?"

"You want a list? This could get long."

"Smart aleck." Methos leaned his elbows on the counter and propped his chin in both hands. "Hit me. I'm all ears."

Duncan threw the towel over his shoulder and held up a finger. "One," he said, "You're interfering. You got in my way with Kalas, you took Kristin's head, you got in the middle of my fight with Keane -- you _shot me in the back_."

"Duncan, you've got challengers coming at you every day of the week! What am I supposed to do, let them all have a whack at you?"

"Well, _if_ you remember -- every time you interfered I still ended up fighting. Hm?" Duncan raised his eyebrows at Methos.

"Yes, but you weren't ready the first times." He ignored Duncan's snort of disbelief. "You'd have lost your head long ago, if it wasn't for me. I don't know how you've lived this long."

"I managed to survive for four hundred years before you came along to 'help' me," Duncan said, making air quotes around the word. "Somehow I muddled through."

Methos made a face. "So I tell you unwelcome truths and keep you from getting killed," he said. "What's next on your list?"

"That's not what I said," Duncan protested.

Methos waved this aside. "Continue."

"Fine. You're too quick to just -- take someone's head. Or rather, for me to do it."

"What?" Methos picked up a knife and polished it vigorously.

Duncan took it away from him. Methos picked up another.

"When Kristin came to town, you were right there on her tail, saying 'what exactly are you waiting for?' I try to talk to you about Cochrane, and your advice? 'Lure him outside and take his head.' You told me to take Ingrid's head. You told me to take _your_ head."

Methos put down the knife he was polishing. "I was right, wasn't I? Except about that last, I mean. Not my best piece of advice."

"It's all terrible advice," Duncan stubbornly. "Some of those people were my friends."

"_Were_ being the operative word. Look, Mac, we are what we are -- as you've said yourself. And when we go off the rails -- there's nothing else to do. What would you suggest? An immortal therapy clinic? And besides," he said, picking up another knife. "You know more insane immortals than anyone I know."

"Present company excepted?" Duncan smiled a bit thinly.

"You've had your chance," Methos said, tapping his neck with the knife blade. "I can't believe we're having this argument."

"We're having this argument because I at least try to do something for my friends, stop them, talk them out of it, anything, and you -- you just pull out your sword."

"I do not just pull out my sword," Methos said. "I run first."

"Oh, and that's better."

"It keeps me alive," Methos said, shrugging. "Is there more on your list, or are we done?"

"We're not done. You just said it -- you run from a challenge if you can."

"Are you judging me for that?" Methos put an edge into his voice.

"No, no." Duncan ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying -- it's not my way."

"So I'm not your type, because I'm not an all for one, one for all kind of guy?"

"Well --." Duncan sounded suddenly unsure. Perhaps thinking of the times Methos had picked up his sword: Kristin, Keane, Kalas.

Or Kronos. The one Duncan carefully didn't name. The wound was still a bit too raw, there.

"And yet," Methos prompted.

Duncan was silent.

"Let's review," Methos said, counting on his fingers. "I tell you truths you don't want to hear but need to; I keep you from losing your head; I give you advice you end up taking; and I survive long enough to do all of the above. Are you still saying I'm not your type?"

Duncan sighed, defeated. "No. I suppose not."

"Well that's good." Methos rose from his chair and picked up his jacket. "Too bad, though, that you're not mine."

Methos could hear Duncan huffing in exasperation as he headed for the stairs.

 

#####

 

Duncan was sleeping. Methos was awake. The earlier argument with Duncan -- if that's what it was -- had made him restless and jittery. He played and replayed their words in his memory, and lingered on the places where they had danced around the deepest rift between them. He slipped out of bed, and out of the loft, clicking the door shut behind him as quietly as he could. He climbed the steep stairs up to the rooftop. Out of habit, he wandered over to the edge of the building and looked down. The street was empty this time of night, except for a car parked across the way. Methos could see a dark figure inside, the gleam of something metallic reflecting the moonlight. Methos smiled, and resisted the temptation to wave.

He turned away and looked up at the stars instead, faint against the city-lit sky. He had just one thing to say to the universe. _Duncan MacLeod is not my type._

_Is that a joke?_ The universe seemed to answer back. _What's the punch line?_

Methos closed his eyes against the stars. Kronos was dead. After so many long years, gone to decades and then centuries, he no longer had to wait for the dagger to the heart that was his brother. It had come. The bad blood between them had all been shed. None of it atoned for the past.

What he had been, Duncan could not forgive. And yet, here they were. A long way from Paris, a ragged unmatched pair, nothing alike, but yoked somehow to the same destiny, even before that weird quickening they had shared at Bordeaux. And here he was, once again talking to his old friend the limitless night sky, while Duncan lay dreaming in his bed, perhaps now reaching out to the empty space beside him, saying his name. A minor miracle, after all. Methos sent a little salute skywards.

_I hope you're amused, universe. _

The universe didn't deign to answer.

Methos left the rooftop and went back down to Duncan.

 

\--End-


End file.
